


Shea

by Savageandwise



Category: The Beatles
Genre: Blow Job, Fluff, M/M, McLennon, Mild Angst, Sexual Content, Shea Stadium, This is a headcanon of mine, Work of fiction, for me anyway, not my take on reality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-11
Updated: 2018-02-11
Packaged: 2019-03-15 06:36:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13607661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Savageandwise/pseuds/Savageandwise
Summary: August 15th, 1965 The Beatles play Shea Stadium. But what's going on backstage? What is this John and Paul business?





	Shea

**Author's Note:**

> The short version is where-it-will-go asked for a fic about Shea because I mentioned it in Drive My Car. 
> 
> The longer version is this is one of the few utterly sourceless headcanons I have. I'm convinced something went on before the concert at Shea. I've mentioned it in at least one fic. 
> 
> Apologies to Janescarlett for the setting.

John can't hear Paul here. It's too loud. They can't even see the audience yet. They are out there while the band is still safe in the dressing room. But they can hear them scream. The screaming is like the howl of the wind. Like a fierce storm. Like the hurricane the night they cried. There was something alive about it. Something animal that couldn't be controlled, couldn't be contained. The crowd is like that. Each person has ceased to be an individual and has become an element of something tremendous. A drop of water in a vast ocean. The crowd could tear them apart easily. Tear them limb from limb. One wrong word, one wrong move. If they knew, if they only knew. The taste of Paul's mouth, the pressure of his hands on John's back pulling him closer, the sound he makes when he comes, the whisper of his breath while he sleeps, these things are like a song. If they only knew.

John can't interpret the movements of Paul's lips properly without his glasses on. He's probably asking if he’s alright. John holds up his hand, he's shaking. Or maybe the whole world is in the throes of a massive orgasm and he's shaking with it. Shea Stadium is huge. Seats forty five thousand people. He's willing to bet the number of people present is closer to sixty thousand. He doesn't understand how there is enough air for all of them to breathe. He gasps, curling his hands into fists. He can feel Paul's hand fasten around his wrist like a bracelet, pulling him away from everyone else.

For a moment John doesn't understand. And then he sees the fear in George's eyes. John is trembling from head to foot. His breath is coming in shallow, panicked gasps. Paul's arm comes around him. His mouth pressed hard to John's ear.

“You need to calm down, love,” Paul whispers.

And all at once everything is silent. He can't remember where he is. Paul is here, that's all that matters. Paul locks the door behind them. They're in the loos. It stinks here, the smell made worse by the heat. John has smelled worse, he lived in Bambi Kino, the girls’ loos on a busy night at the Cavern: sweat and perfume and cunt. Paul unbuttons John's khaki Nehru jacket. He reaches for Paul, misunderstanding the action, lunges forward and kisses Paul's jaw open-mouthed. Paul wriggles out of John's grasp.

“Cheeky!” Paul exclaims. He turns on the tap and soaks his handkerchief in cold water. 

“I'm not joking, take it easy on those pills. You'll give yourself a heart attack, so you will,” he continues. 

He puts the wet handkerchief to the back of John's neck. His other hand is pressed to John's chest where he's wearing that star-shaped badge. Outside, the low drone of the crowd, like thunder, like a drum roll that never ends. 

“They're calling your name, Paul,” John says. His voice comes out thick and slow.

“You flirt.”

Paul smiles easily, brushes the hair out of John's eyes. John slides his knee between his legs, presses his cheek against Paul's as if they're dancing.

“Come on, pull yourself together,” Paul whispers.

“Let's get back in the helicopter. Get the fuck out of here.”

Paul laughs. “Where do you want to go? You've got fifty thousand birds out there, screaming for a piece of your arse.”

“I'm saving it for you.” John steps closer, grips Paul's face between his hands. He kisses the corner of Paul's mouth sloppily.

“I'm sure you are,” Paul says. He takes John's hands in his and kisses him back properly. 

And the world is spinning again.

“Paris,” John gasps. 

He slides his hands over the buttons of Paul's jacket. His fingers skitter to a halt at the opening of his trousers.

“Not just now, darling,” Paul says, his eyes are twinkling. He's fully enjoying this. 

“John? Paul? Is everything alright in there?” Brian asks from the other side of the locked door. He's anxious, struggles to keep it out of his voice. “Only, everyone is waiting for you.”

Paul's eyes flash dangerously. “Just a touch of nerves, Bri. Won't be a mo.”

Paul reaches down to open his trousers, eases them over his hips with a coquettish little shake.

“Paul!” John hisses under his breath, his tone mock-scandalised. “You can't possibly!”

“Shh,” Paul says, takes his cock in hand and strokes it slowly, his eyes never leaving John's. 

John can feel his eyes glaze over. He reaches forward, falls to his knees, knocking Paul's hands out of the way and sheaths his cock smoothly in his mouth. His fingers spasm against the velvet of Paul's skin. Paul's hands settle on the crown of his head. For a moment John thinks he ought to warn him not to muss his hair. George helped him arrange it only minutes ago. The thought is stifled in a wave of lust. Paul lets out a soft moan, tightens his grip on John. John is lost in the ritual. Like praying to a god. There's a trick to it. Though John very rarely sees the merit of self control this is one of the times he does. 

Above him Paul is gasping for breath.  
“Oh,” he says. “Oh, oh, oh…” Like he's singing backup on a song.

And then it's here, that electric moment, the bitter taste of excitement, the rush of Paul's come hot in his mouth. John swallows hurriedly. On some level he's aware they're in Shea Stadium, that they're about to step out into the diamond in the middle of the field. Masses of people have come here to see them. This is it. The toppermost of the poppermost. This is what they dreamed of. And all John can think of is stripping off those pretty suits so he can feel Paul's skin sing against his.

Paul leans against the sink, face pink with pleasure, eyes closed. It's so loud, the rasping sound of Paul's breath and his, that John feels sure they can hear everything outside. They know everything. They know all about John and Paul and what goes on between them backstage. 

John slides his tongue over the slick head of Paul's cock, licks it clean of remaining come.

“Jesus,” Paul whispers. “When you do that it sets me right off again.”

A giggle escapes John. It's almost true. Paul’s sexual appetite is unmatched. John stands, brushes off his knees and does an awkward little dance. He's so hard it hurts but he can hear Brian clamouring from behind the locked door and there's no time for anything else.

“You've spoiled me for anyone else, you know?” Paul says as he tucks himself back in and straightens his clothing. He says it so casually as if he's talking about the weather.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Paul says. He pulls John in for a kiss, his lips travelling downward to lick John's neck where his pulse is jumping. Paul presses his mouth to his collarbone, sucks the delicate skin there until John can't help but let out a small, reedy cry of desire. He's left a mark for sure. 

“There. Now they can all see you're mine.”

John feels himself flush scarlet with want and pride and adoration. He raises his hands to fasten his collar. 

“Leave it. I want them to see,” Paul says insistently. John hears the steel beneath the velvet of his voice.

John lets his hands drop to his sides, then unlocks the door reluctantly. He turns to face Paul before opening the door a crack and letting in the deafening fracas. 

George is already reaching in to grasp his arm. He's telling them to hurry up. John can just about make out the word Paul's lips are forming:

_Mine._

They grab their instruments and head out onto the field. George is last, Paul pushes ahead, taking long impatient strides, then Ringo, then John, practically skipping, his heart going like mad in his chest. _Paul says John is his. He's his._ He can't stop smiling. At that moment Paul turns and grins at John, his face illuminated by the massive floodlights. He looks like a god. 

When the crowd catches sight of them, the roar rolls over them in wave upon wave of sound. They can barely see the audience. They blink, blind, starstruck, awash in light. Arriving at the centre of the field feels like stepping off the earth and onto a higher plane. They are immortal.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Twinka as always for reading and editing this and cheering me on! You always spot the things that need tweaking and know what needs extra attention.
> 
> Thank you to Celebratorypenguin. You said: That moment when John plays the keyboard with his elbow and Paul spins around laughing - that's how I want to remember them. And you inspired the last sentence: They are immortal.
> 
> Thank you Bakerstreetafternoon. You influence me more than you know.
> 
> Thank you to Emma for mentioning that photo of Brian standing on his own, watching his boys. You're my muse.


End file.
